


maybe later we can parlay

by deadlight_s (scamsHan)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Field Operative Richie Tozier, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24707449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scamsHan/pseuds/deadlight_s
Summary: If he were feeling brave he would open each drawer, relishing in the click on an inhaler, the smell of lavender shampoo or the piercing gaze of a brown eyed boy.Richie Tozier has many things locked away in boxes. Hidden in the back of his mind. After ten years apart he reunites with the one who has the chance to unlock it.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 124





	maybe later we can parlay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saintsrow2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsrow2/gifts).



> This fic takes place in the universe of my smau [Self Destruct](https://twitter.com/SelfDestruct_AU/status/1267524452985851907?s=20) where Richie is a Spy/Secret Agent while it's not strictly necessary to have read it before reading this, some things may make more sense if you do!
> 
> Anyway this was a fic requested by my buddy [rants](https://twitter.com/rorschachisgay) who wanted the full story about how Richie and Eddie reunited after spending about 10 years apart after they graduated high school! Hope you guys enjoy <3

_ 2004 _

“Do you remember Eddie Kaspbrak?” His mother asks, swirling her spoon in her steaming mug. Milk, two sugars. The coffee is decaf, she’s cutting back. “Little thing. Breathing troubles. The one whose mother didn’t like me.”

Richie’s grip on his own mug— no sugar, a splash of half & half so minimal he may as well start taking it black, fully caffeinated because he had the sinking notion that his nerves would die if they weren’t constantly being stimulated— tightens. Does he remember? How could he not. As if there was a tangible memory in his grasp that wasn’t smudged with Eddie’s fingerprints.

As if there wasn’t a time where Richie would die for him.

“The Little Noodle!” His sister, Agnes, chimes from her place at the stove, flipping a pancake with ease. “Could’ve sworn him and Rich were attached at the hip at one point”

His mother laughs “Little Noodle! Is that what you’d call him?”

“That’s what I’d call him,” Agnes shrugged, pouring more batter into the warm pan. “Can’t remember why.”

“Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie sips his coffee, trying his best to hide his face in his mug. “You called him that because I called him Eddie Spaghetti.”

Agnes gasps, jabbing her spatula in Richie’s direction “Eddieeee Spaghetttiiii…”

“Well, I bumped into him at the store last night! He looked so grown up, I almost didn’t recognize him.”

“Bumped into who?” A rough voice grunts from the doorway.

“Eddie Kaspbrak, Went you remember him! He was one of Richie’s little friends. The one who was always at the house.”

Went stretches before walking over to grab a pancake, forgoing the plate and just eating it from his hand “That’s the little one with the wheeze, right?”

“Asthma, dad. He had asthma.”

It had been about six months since Richie last set foot in Derry. A promise, kept for his mother.  _ Now don’t let this new job keep you from seeing me. I know how you get with things. _ Which, fair, getting Richie out to Derry was like pulling teeth from a crocodile, an act that should really be avoided as much as possible now that he thought about it. It’s not as if Richie didn’t want to see his mother, or any of his family really, it just felt weird.

He ventures into the back of his mind, unlocking the broom closet door that hides his memories. Rows and rows of filing cabinets sit in a dimly lit room, each drawer labeled with things like  _ How to Ride a Bike _ or  _ Plants that will Definitely Kill You _ or his personal favorite  _ Events in Which You Felt Tenderness _ . He bypasses all of them for a box, one that sits in the middle of the metaphysical room out of place from the neatly ordered rows of drawers. Simply labeled  _ Why It’s Hard to Talk to Your Family _ . He doesn’t understand why he takes the time to open the box, it’s not as if its contents have changed. A simple white card that reads:  _ Because You are a Stranger. _

He wants to place blame on something, his mom’s phone calls, his sister’s need to steal his shirts, his father’s gruff disposition, but it’s not their fault, they don’t know that they’ve invited a killer into their home. They didn’t know they lost their son, traded in for a weapon shiny and new.

There’s another cabinet, one wrapped in chains and sealed with padlocks. Beyond that it’s the same as all the others, it would be unassuming were it not for the dramatic display of sentimental security. It would be unimportant if not for the label.  _ Eddie. _ In times of extreme weakness, those who were well adjusted would probably call it longing or something of the sort, he would painstakingly undo each lock and let the chains fall to the floor. If he were feeling brave he would open each drawer, relishing in the click on an inhaler, the smell of lavender shampoo or the piercing gaze of a brown eyed boy. 

He wonders if Eddie were here he would smell the gun oil on him.

“I invited him to dinner,” his mother says, cutting through his moment of psychological torture.

Richie almost drops his mug “O-Oh?”

“Yes.It just didn’t feel right, knowing that he was going to be alone in that old house. Poor thing. Must be hard, having to deal with all that.”

“All of what,” Richie asks, suppressing the undercurrent of anxiety that once would have trembled in his voice.

“His mother. She passed a few days ago. Apparently, he’s trying to get the house ready for the market.” 

“Would it be too much to get a bottle of champagne for dinner then,” Agnes chuckles, setting down a plate of pancakes— short stack, no syrup, extra butter— in front of him.

“Agnes!” His mother scolds half-heartedly “That was his mother. Get a Cabernet at least.”

In one of the Eddie labeled drawers that sits in his broom closet of memories, there is a single file for Sonia Kaspbrak. A neat, hardly touched, manilla folder with her name written upon it in red ink. If Richie dared, and he usually didn’t, to open said folder he would be greeted with a single yellow post-it note that says  _ She doesn’t want me near you. _ He thinks if he listens hard enough he could hear the hiss of  _ That rotten Tozier boy  _ echo in his ear.

He doesn’t know what he hates more, the fact that she said or the fact that she was right. As if she saw his future of blood stained hands and scarred skin the moment she looked at him. Maybe Eddie should have stayed away.

He doesn’t, Richie’s quick to find out when the doorbell rings at exactly 6:55 PM that day. He didn’t know what to expect when he opened the door, certainly not this. Eddie Kaspbrak standing on his doorstep, grown, but still the same. Well, kind of the same, he supposed. His hair, that Richie remembered being cropped short and neatly styled, was chin length and held back with an elastic headband. His thin, angled features were dusted with neatly trimmed facial hair. He suddenly knows what he expected, a boy, frozen in time, just the same as he left him. Richie instead stood face to face with a man, an adult, changed by time walking over him.

The eyes were still the same, though. He thinks that’s the most important part.

“Richie?” Eddie asks, his eyes raking up Richie’s gargantuan frame. Perhaps Eddie expected him to be frozen too.

“Hi Eds,” he smiles, falling into a familiar warmth that he thought he’d long forgotten.

“Don’t call me that,” His brow furrows. “I always hated when you called me that.”

Richie laughs. It’s Eddie. “You said you hated it which is very different from actually hating it.”

“In what world does that make sense? What fucking kind of maligned sense of reality do you operate in now?”

It’s a joke, or a jab he supposed. Banter. A serve expecting a volly. Something so second nature to the two of them it’s as if their souls never aged, even though it was obvious that their bodies did. Yet, the nagging pit in Richie’s stomach deepened. Could he tell? Did he smell the blood on him? Did those eyes once again see right through him?

Eddie must’ve have noticed the shift, his sharp look softens “Richie I-”

“Richard!” His mother calls from the living room. “Aren’t you going to invite our guest inside?”

Richie pulls the corners of his mouth upward, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes “You heard the lady, Spaghetti. Let’s mosey.”

Eddie huffs, rolling his eyes “Can’t believe I thought you changed even a little bit.”

Dinner was a casual affair, as casual as it can be with the full Tozier clan. His mother had made some kind of pasta dish that she quickly apologized for, as she had forgotten that Eddie was gluten intolerant. To which Eddie then quickly rebuffed with  _ No worries, I actually learned that I wasn’t allergic last year. I don’t have any food allergies, actually. _ There was a sense of pride in his voice, as if he were proclaiming the joys of his newfound invincibility. 

Richie played his role well. It helped that he was playing double duty as an asshole older brother and annoying childhood friend simultaneously. He spent most of the time taking pot shots at Agnes’s latest jingle— a radio ad for a new toothpaste hitting the market, something minty and benign— or Eddie’s failed marriage, to a woman no less. He was able to deflect most questions about his job— a writer according to his Mother, a liar according to himself— while still having enough time to lock eyes with Eddie from across the table.

It was nice. Something for the filing cabinet, maybe he’d be brave enough to open it up when enough years have passed. 

“Richard, why don’t you walk your little friend home? It’s late.” His mother said once their after dinner coffees ran cold.

“Ah, pretty sure Eds can’t wait to get away from me,” He laughs, hoping that it’s loud enough to hide the truth, which is the idea of being alone with Eddie for longer than a minute may cause him to spontaneously combust.

His mother gives him a look, exasperated yet fond “Be a good host, Richard.”

“Yeah Richie,” Eddie chimes. “Walk me home.”

Richie doesn’t panic anymore, not like he used to. Another piece of him peeled away, though if he were being fair he didn’t mind the change. He’s seen death and lived too many times to count now, all the panic squeezed out of him. At least, that’s what he thought until he and Eddie walk the two blocks between their family homes, their shoulders barely an inch apart. Panic, thy name is Kaspbrak.

“It was good, seeing you again,” Eddie says, his gaze laser focused on Richie’s shoes.

“Yeah Eds,” Richie says, his gaze just as avoidant, his hand nervously scratching the back of his head “You look good.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, but it just felt right. Maybe it was the fact that it was the closest thing Richie had come to telling the truth in a long time. Maybe it was the fact that in the time it took from Eddie showing up on his doorstep to now Richie had remembered so clearly that he would do anything for him and that hadn’t changed in the years they were apart. Maybe it was just because Eddie did look good, alarmingly so. Richie would even go so far as to say that Eddie was one of the most beautiful things he’s laid his eyes on in a long time. Or maybe it was just that he looked happy, as if something had finally clicked for Eddie that Richie would never get the chance to see.

Or at least he thought until the words  _ I’m gay. _ quickly tumbled out from Eddie’s lips.

Richie means to say  _ me too _ , he assures himself. In an attempt to not only connect with Eddie, but to maybe take a chance and tell the truth again. What he says instead is:

“Congratulations?”

“Yeah, thanks dipshit,” he fires back, but there’s no bite to it, no harm. “I’m just saying, because I think you should know. I want you to know.”

Once again he finds himself pinned under Eddie’s gaze, as if he’s being dared to say something. To do something. Richie wants to say  _ I’m glad you told me. _ To comfort, to reassure. He even goes the length of placing a heavy hand on Eddie’s shoulder, the tip of his thumb barely caressing the crook of his neck. He wants to say  _ I’m glad you told me. _ What he says instead is:

“Get a drink with me.”

Eddie glances at the hand, but doesn’t move away “Like right now?”

“If you want,” Richies says, voice barely above a whisper. His hand doesn’t move.

Eddie lifts his hand, placing it gently atop Richie’s “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot, Rich.”

Richie pulls the corners of his mouth upward. This time, however, the smile reaches his eyes.


End file.
